


incanto

by Ivillpunchyouinthethroat



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer enjoys the stupidity, Yennefer is all of us, Yennefer knows what's up, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivillpunchyouinthethroat/pseuds/Ivillpunchyouinthethroat
Summary: “What’s wrong?” Geralt rumbles again, does one last check over their campsite in case he’d missed something. Nothing out of place, just the smoking remains of their fire, their bedrolls surrounding it, and Roach grazing peacefully off to the side, shooting the two of them a disdainful look for making such a racket this early in the morning.“What’s wrong—” Jaskier sputters, calling Geralt’s attention back to himself, “what’swrong? Geralt, what the hell are these!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 412
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	incanto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectricRituals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricRituals/gifts).



> My secret santa gift to [Electric Rituals](https://geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I hope there's enough obliviousness to your liking! :D

“ _Geralt!_ ”

Geralt is roused from a deep sleep by Jaskier’s strangled exclamation and based on firsthand experience in hearing his name screeched from the bard’s lips in that _exact_ pitch and register, he’s pulling his silver sword out of its sheath before he’s even sprung out of his bedroll.

He scans the campsite quickly, _aard_ flaring preemptively in one hand, only to find Jaskier bent over the small creek that they’d camped by for the night.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt barks, scanning for monsters or humans as he half runs over.

Jaskier doesn’t answer and Geralt inwardly curses. He hadn’t sensed any magical beings at the spring the night before but water nymphs liked popping up at the most inopportune of times and if one had caught Jaskier’s gaze Geralt had about two seconds before she decided whether Jaskier was pretty enough to keep or not.

Geralt already knew what the water nymph’s decision would be, and that decision usually meant drowning.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls once more. Still, no response.

“ _Jaskier!_ ” Geralt shouts again as he finally nears, lets _aard_ dissipate, and yanks Jaskier around by the shoulder.

To Geralt’s relief Jaskier does not look dazed or starstruck, but he is looking up at him with panic wide eyes. Geralt looks over him quickly, no wounds, no blood, rumpled bed clothes rumpled but not torn and still _on._ Hell, his eyes still look sleep swollen, as if he’d only just woken up.

“What’s _wrong_?” Geralt rumbles again, does one last check over their campsite in case he’d missed something. Nothing out of place, just the smoking remains of their fire, their bedrolls surrounding it, and Roach grazing peacefully off to the side, shooting the two of them a disdainful look for making such a racket this early in the morning.

“What’s wrong—” Jaskier sputters, calling Geralt’s attention back to himself, “what’s _wrong?_ Geralt, what the hell are these!”

Jaskier gesticulates wildly to his head, Geralt follows his harried pointing and—

There, nestled in Jaskier’s chestnut curls, two delicate little horns sprout from the top of Jaskier’s head.

 _Fuck_ , Geralt thinks with a sinking feeling in his stomach, because he’d been worried about a water nymph—a water _fae_ —and here Jaskier was sprouting fucking _horns_ from his own head.

“Horns,” he says, lowering his sword now that he knows there’s no actual physical threat to deal with.

“Yes, _horns,_ Geralt,” Jaskier reiterates, “which I am very, _very_ , certain were _not_ here yesterday!”

No, they definitely hadn’t been.

“Oh, Melitele’s _tits_ Geralt, do you think that barmaid cursed me?” Jaskier exclaims, speaking of the barmaid he’d bedded the night before at the inn they’d settled down for a week-long hunt in, “Or was it the wife of the nobleman I bedded the night before that? Though I’m fairly certain his wife is the one who picked _me_ out so I don’t understand why she would decide to curse me after I gave her husband an absolutely _wonderful_ night to remember—”

“Come here,” Geralt grunts, cutting off Jaskier’s tirade and pulling him in with the hand still at his shoulder as much to get him to shut up about his myriad of bedpartners as to actually inspect him for what Geralt is very much hoping is _not_ the reason for horns to have suddenly sprouted from his head. He pulls Jaskier in close, close enough that he can look clearly into the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier blinks up at him, eyes wider even now than they’d been before.

“Geralt…?” he asks, voice uneven as his eyes flick between Geralt’s own.

Geralt doesn’t respond, just stares.

Blue, blue as the ocean and the sky as always, except…

Geralt leans in closer, enough that he can feel the huff of Jaskier’s uneven breath on his face.

He vaguely registers one of Jaskier’s hand coming up to squeeze at his arm, blue gaze darting _down_ before coming back up to meet Geralt’s eyes once more.

“ _Ger—”_ he starts once more, voice strangely quiet.

_There._

Sprouting from the dark of Jaskier’s pupil, the barest hint of _red._

He lets go of Jaskier’s arm, pulls back and picks up the hand grabbing him instead.

His nails, they were already growing longer, a little pointed.

Fuck.

Geralt steps back then, far enough that he can glance at all of Jaskier in one swoop.

“Uh Geralt,” Jaskier starts, looking as dazed as how Geralt first expected him to look crouched over the creek, “I realize you are not the chattiest of fellows on a good day but if you could _please tell me what’s going on!_ ”

Geralt ignores him.

Jaskier has always been tall, at a height with Geralt himself except now—yes, he’d grown taller. His limbs, still slender with deceptively lean muscle from years spent on the road, they were just slightly longer as well.

Another sweep of Geralt’s gaze.

Jaskier had always had an elegant build about him, one which Geralt had always thought better suited for decadent courts instead of the dingy taverns and sleazy inns Jaskier insisted on accompanying Geralt to instead—but now with his limbs that little bit longer and even just _standing_ there, looking panicked, somehow Jaskier was still managing to look… _graceful._

_Fuck._

Geralt rushes in close one last time.

He grabs Jaskier by the chin, ignores his sputtering as he turns him first one way and then another.

His ears, they were already turning pointed.

It was the last and final confirmation that Geralt needed.

Jaskier was fae.

More specifically, Jaskier was a changeling and it was only now that his human veneer was finally wearing off.

“Fuck,” Geralt says aloud.

“ _Fuck_?” Jaskier repeats an octave above as he rips his face out of Geralt’s hold. “Geralt what in Melitele’s name is _happening to me!?_ ”

Geralt already knows _exactly_ what is happening to Jaskier but if there was somebody who was going to know whether it was in any way _reversible_ …

“Let’s call Yennefer,” he answers instead.

***

Yennefer walks through her portal, takes one look at Jaskier and _laughs._

She laughs and laughs and laughs and at one point Geralt thinks she might start crying.

“ _Yen,_ ” Geralt grits out, “Yen, _please._ ”

“Please _what_ , Geralt?” she asks between guffaws, “you should now as well as I that this isn’t reversible.”

“What isn’t reversible?” Jaskier asks from beside him. “What the hell’s happened Yennefer! Why do I have horns and pointy ears!”

“You’re fae,” Yennefer answers as her chuckles peter out, “More specifically, you’re a changeling and it looks like your human veneer finally wore off.”

Jaskier stares incredulously at Yennefer, his gaze swinging to Geralt as if he expected him to refute her explanation. When Geralt offers nothing but an impassive stare he turns back to Yennefer.

“A _changeling?_ ” Jaskier repeats, voice still high in skepticism, “Like the stories that parents tell their kids about faeires stealing away human babes and leaving their own unwanted kin behind? I thought those were just stories meant to frighten children into doing their chores!”

Yennefer raises a brow, “You travel with a witcher, you should know by now a lot of things aren’t just _stories._ ”

“Well yes but we’ve never come across _fae_ ,” Jaskier is quick to reply, “I thought they were just another of the monsters that Geralt so loves to remind me don’t actually exist.”

“Witchers tend to avoid fae wherever we can,” Geralt grumbles in answer, “they’re fickle, powerful beings, but they live deep enough in secret forests and woodland realms that their interaction with humans is minimal.”

“Except when they’re apparently abandoning their _babies_ to them!” Jaskier retorts indignantly.

Geralt turns back to Yennefer, “Is there a way?”

“No,” Yennefer answers without hesitation, “It’s fae magic Geralt, even I can’t mess with that, there’s no getting his veneer back.”

“So what, I’m stuck like this?” Jaskier exclaims gesturing at all of himself. His pointy horns and ears, his slightly too long limbs, the dash of blood in his clear blue eyes.

“Yes, you are,” Yennefer says bluntly, “and you should be grateful bard, you’re changeling form is much more subtle than some others I’ve seen.”

“ _Subtle!_ ” Jaskier screeches. “I have _horns_ sprouting out of my head Yennefer!”

“And be grateful you don’t have green skin, black eyes, and fangs longer than a wolf’s” Yennefer counters smoothly. “You know,” she continues, brow quirked as she stares at a still faltering Jaskier, “I’d always found it unlikely that you’d managed to change Geralt’s reputation around the continent with just your voice alone.” She cocks her head, “I should have known there was something magical about you.”

Jaskier face goes slack with confusion only for his brows to quickly furrow into a squint.

“Wait…did you just insult my singing?”

Yennefer throws her head back on another laugh, mirth in her eyes as power ripples around her and space begins to distort behind her. 

“Have fun with your new found fae Geralt,” Yennefer says with a deceptively pleasant smile on her face as the portal opens fully. “You know, the one who’s going to be as long lived as both of us now.”

Then she steps through her portal and disappears.

***

“Alright, this is…this is fine,” Jaskier says mostly to himself, stood there in the middle of their campsite, air still smelling slightly electric from Yennefer’s departure . “I still look human—well mostly human, and I—I can still sing!”

He launches into the chorus of _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ , and it is as always, flawless.

What is not as always, however, is the way that Geralt’s medallion hums just slightly against his chest at Jaskier’s voice.

Alright, that might be a problem.

“And I can still play!” Jaskier continues as he scurries across their campsite and hurriedly unpacks his lute. He runs through the beginning of one of his more complex ballads, fingers light as ever on the strings.

Geralt’s medallion stays quiet at that.

_Hmm_

“It’s fine!” Jaskier says with false cheer, as if he’s trying to convince himself of this fact. He looks over at Geralt, “It’s fine…right, Geralt?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, at his unsteady smile and the way his blue eyes seem even more liquid than usual.

His medallion had barely hummed and even with horns and pointy ears and too long limbs Jaskier was still, well, _Jaskier_.

And Jaskier had suffered an inhuman companion long enough for Geralt to abandon him at the first sign of a little inhumanness himself.

“You might want to do something about the horns and the ears if you don’t want people mistaking you for and elf,” Geralt finally supplies.

Jaskier’s smile melts into something relieved and entirely more natural in an instant.

“My darling witcher, you are correct!”

***

Jaskier starts wearing a lot of hats.

Very bright, very garish hats, with an exorbitant amount of feathers.

He has to trim his nails everyday too but even then more than a few lute strings have been accidently sliced through with a too sharp nail, much to Jaskier’s eternal griping.

As a half fae, his irises don’t turn fully red, thank Melitele, and the slight discoloration of red amid blue can only be discerned if you stare directly into Jaskier’s eyes for just a bit too long.

But all in all, nothing much else changes, Geralt still hunts, Jaskier still plays, and if tavern patrons are even easier with their coin nowadays when Jaskier sings for their supper, Geralt’s medallion buzzing ever so slightly at his chest—

Well, they have money for a room at an inn more often than not and nothing catches on fire, so.

Geralt will keep an eye on it.

***

“You know,” Jaskier says, just another day on the road, feet so light on the craggy dirt road that he barely kicks up dust. He has his lute in hand, idly strumming it. “It’s not so bad after all, I don’t get _nearly_ as tired with all the walking you make me do.”

Geralt snorts atop Roach, “Is that so?”

“And while my singing has _always_ been the paragon of vocalist virtuosity even _I_ can admit that we seem to be getting a little bit extra in coin nowadays.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums.

“And what say _you_ my dear witcher,” Jaskier asks then, as he flits forward before Roach, strumming some complicated melody that Geralt is sure he improvised on the spot as he continues walking backwards. It’s a careless display of agility on this, bumpy, poorly maintained road they travel on, one that were Jaskier still fully human, Geralt has no doubt would have landed him on his ass already.

Geralt quirks a brow.

“About your singing?”

Jaskier scoffs.

“No not just about the singing Geralt, though I suppose that is a part of it. I mean,” he reaches up to flick at one of his horns, his usual hat currently stuffed into his pack once they’d realized how deserted the road was, “I mean all of it.”

Hmm, what _did_ Geralt think of the fact that Jaskier had turned out to be fae?

Geralt will admit, beyond his initial surprise and his silent monitoring of Jaskier’s singing he hadn’t really given too much thought to Jaskier being a magical creature.

And perhaps that in and of itself was odd.

Geralt was a witcher, dealing with magical creatures was his job but Jaskier—

It felt like Jaskier hadn’t so much changed as…settled into himself somehow.

Jaskier had always been larger than life, bounding up to a witcher in some two-bit tavern in Posada, following that witcher on a hunt, _keeping_ on following that witcher no matter how little the witcher actually talked to him or how many close calls they’d both had since then.

It seemed almost fitting then, that Jaskier be fae, something known for their deceptively delicate and beautiful looks and how they enticed humans and witchers alike to their forests, with their lilting voices. Willing victims who followed the sweet soft of their voices as they beckoned.

And while Geralt had always know Jaskier’s blue eyes to be captivating by human standards now—with their barest hint of red—well, now they were downright _enchanting._

Geralt has to fight not to startle.

Jaskier, _enchanting?_

Geralt focuses on Jaskier once more, who’s gaze is still turned up to him expectantly.

“You’re quieter on hunts now,” Geralt answers and feels his lips twitch on the words.

Jaskier makes a wounded noise, hand to his chest and dramatics on full display as he hops back around to Geralt’s side.

“Figures,” Jaskier says, mock annoyance in his voice even if his eyes still sparkle, “I sprout horns and all _you_ care about is whether I can be quieter.”

Geralt can’t help it when the twitch of his lips turns into a smile.

***

It’s a job for a nobleman gone bad.

Well, not so much gone bad as not the nobleman’s way.

It’s a middling count who’d hired him to take care of a bruxa seducing some of his townsfolk and who, upon Geralt’s successful return, had decided that Geralt would also perform another job for him. One that involved assassinating some of the count’s political rivals.

Jaskier had laughed and Geralt had declined as he always did whenever humans got too greedy around him.

The count had not taken that too well.

To the point that he and Jaskier were now surrounded by over a dozen of the count’s guards, multiple knives to their throats because the count had given Geralt and Jaskier the names of who it was he’d wanted assassinated already and he no longer felt comfortable letting _either_ of them live with the knowledge.

Across from him Jaskier is looking at him with wide blue eyes, swallowing nervously against the dagger pressed entirely too far into the tender skin of his throat.

Geralt grits his teeth, eyes flicking around trying to look for an escape because while he _could_ disarm the six or so guards that are currently on him, it probably wouldn’t be in time for the guard holding a knife to Jaskier’s throat to _not_ cut into Jaskier’s jugular.

Geralt resists the urge to growl, this was why he _hated_ taking contracts from nobility, no matter the coin they offered. Pretentious assholes _always_ wanted something extra from him.

“Kill them,” the count says as he turns on his heel and exits the room and Geralt _really_ needs to find that way out of here before—

The guard on Jaskier presses his knife even deeper, deep enough to draw blood and two things happen.

One, Geralt lunges, heedless of the way the knife at his own throat slices into him as he does.

Two, Jaskier sings.

It’s a melody in a language that Geralt doesn’t know but that he can somehow perceive is _ancient_ all the same. It spills into the room from Jaskier’s lips, seeming to weave itself into the very air as the medallion at Geralt’s chest jumps with how hard it’s vibrating.

Geralt freezes mid lunge, looking up at Jaskier like he’s gone mad because Jaskier was, quite literally, about to die and he’s _singing._

But then the guard’s hold loosens and the knife at Jaskier’s throat sags until it slips out of the guard’s slack hold entirely. It clatters to the stone floor beneath.

Jaskier looks back up at him, eyes wide on confusion but even amid that he still sings, is _still_ singing as he and Geralt survey the room around them.

The guards all look dazed, eyes wide and hazy, like they’re drunk on Jaskier’s words, on Jaskier’s song. Weapons drop and clatter to the floor as the guards sway on their feet and Jaskier keeps singing, pitch rising until he finally ends on something harsh and consonant that sounds unresolved even to Geralt’s own untrained ears. There’s a split moment of silence and then the guards drop to the floor all at once.

Geralt’s medallion stops thrashing at his chest only to resume its faint buzzing and Geralt can just about _taste_ the lingering magic in the air as Jaskier stares at the bodies scattered all around them.

They’re currently in the count’s dungeons and while Geralt can’t immediately hear the thudding of more guards rushing towards them, they needed to move _._

“We need to leave. _Now.”_ Geralt barks and it’s only his voice that breaks Jaskier out of his stupor.

They gather their things and _run._

***

“How did you—” Geralt asks hours later, when they’re leagues away from the count’s estate and Jaskier is a tense slab of a man against Geralt’s chest where Geralt had hauled him up Roach’s saddle with him. They had needed to get as far away from the count’s estate as they could, and this had been the fastest way.

“I don’t,” Jaskier interrupts, “I don’t really know. There were words on my lips, I could feel them buzzing electric on my tongue when the count _first_ let his guards loose on us. But the minute he gave the order to _kill us_ —it was like those words were desperate to get out. So, I let them.”

“Your singing,” Geralt says, “it’s been carrying magic since you changed. My medallion has hummed with your voice every time you’ve sang, but it was only now that it vibrated hard enough to warn of real, _powerful,_ magic.”

Jaskier barks out a laugh. Geralt can feel his shoulders shake against him.

“ _Gods,_ so Yennefer was right then,” Jaskier says, voice still unsteady with laughter and something else.

“You saved us Jaskier,” Geralt retorts, hands tightening around Jaskier’s body, “your pride can take the hit.”

Jaskier laughs again but some of the tension finally leaks from his body.

He sags against Geralt.

“I suppose your right.”

***

The next time Jaskier sings, they’re at another tavern.

The bard looks slightly nervous as he tunes his lute, darting a glance Geralt’s way before he takes a deep breath and launches into _The Fishmonger’s Daughter._

Geralt looks down, feels the medallion at his chest only hum.

He looks back up, gives Jaskier a nod, and watches as the tension bleeds out of him entirely, back to his usual exuberant self quickly enough. He dances around the tavern, ridiculous feathers swaying at his head as he rallies the people to sing along with him.

***

“I think you need a focus. Intent.” Geralt says one night around their campfire as he runs a whetstone down his sword.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums, looking up from where he’s restringing another snapped string on his lute.

“Your singing,” Geralt explains, “when you preform, I assume your goal is usually to earn coin.”

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, twisting a lute peg to stretch the new string taught, “enough at least to cover food and a room.”

“My medallion barely hums when you sing in a tavern, but even then, we both noticed that people tended to be freer with their coin. Back at the count’s estate, your intent was to…?” He lets his question hang.

“Get out,” Jaskier says, plucking the string along with a neighboring one, adjusting the peg minutely for pitch, “get those damn guards away from us, in any way I could.”

“My medallion was practically bouncing at your singing then and it only calmed once all the guards had collapsed.”

Jaskier plucks the string a few more times and, finally satisfied with its intonation, sets the lute back in its open case. He straightens, looks at Geralt over the fire.

“So I have to what, _want_ something and somehow my singing will attain it?”

“It’s not that simple,” Geralt answers, “magic never is, but I think that’s root of it.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment but then a smile spreads across his features, one that Geralt _knows_ means mischief.

“Why my dear witcher,” Jaskier says, “I think that’s the most you’ve spoken in a _month_.”

Geralt grumbles, passing his stone a bit more forcefully down his sword, the scrape of it mixing with the crackle of the fire.

Jaskier laughs and it’s only when his laughter finally peters out that he says quietly.

“Thank you. That’s good to know.”

Geralt hums an acquiescence and when Jaskier picks up his lute again, idly humming to the quiet snatches of melody he plucks out, Geralt’s medallion hums against his chest once more.

At this point, it’s practically comforting.

***

The next time Jaskier _sings,_ Geralt’s fighting a griffin.

A griffin who descends on Geralt, sharp claws extended and ready to rend through flesh. The griffin screeches and Geralt already knows he’s going to be just a moment too slow lifting his sword with an arm that’s already stained red from a deep cut at his shoulder.

Geralt tenses, preparing for what’s going to be the bright pain of talons tearing across his chest when Jaskier sings something fast and guttural and suddenly the griffin is knocked away, careening into the ground with force enough as if Jaskier had cast _aard_ at it.

Geralt doesn’t waste the opportunity.

He runs over, deals a final blow through the creature’s chest and then looks back at Jaskier.

“And what did you want this time?” he asks.

“To save you,” Jaskier answers, blue eyes strangely vivid once more, “for you to not get hurt.”

Jaskier walks close, closer.

“Geralt,” he says and the word itself makes Geralt’s medallion twitch amid it’s low hum. Jaskier is close enough that Geralt can see the red in his eyes and it seems to pulse in time to the beat of Geralt’s slow heart.

The moment hangs suspended between them and Geralt is reminded of the first time that he’d looked this deep into Jaskier’s eyes, trying to find the evidence of a magical nature in them.

“We should take a look at your arm,” Jaskier finally says, breaking their stare and turning towards their abandoned packs.

Geralt’s medallion stays quiet at that.

***

A couple weeks later they run into Yennefer.

They’re sat at a corner of a rather dingy tavern, even by Geralt’s own lax standards, slowly making their way through a bowl of thin stew and a pint of watery ale when she arrives.

All eyes turn to her as she walks through the door, commanding the attention of an entire room by her entrance alone as Yennefer has always been able to do. She ignores the stares, quickly scanning the building and pausing only when she spots them in the far corner. She makes a beeline straight for them.

“Oh Yennefer, what a _pleasant_ surprise,” Jaskier says when she finally nears, emphasis on the word pleasant.

Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“Nice hat,” she answers, pointedly staring at the bright teal monstrosity on Jaskier’s head before turning to Geralt.

“Geralt, good, you’re here. I need your brawn with a bit of a problem.”

“Ohohoho,” Jaskier chuckles, “my dear Yennefer, bold of you to assume we’ll just pick up and help you with any of your dark witchy business—”

“What do you need,” Geralt asks, already reaching over to grab at his swords.

“I couple of mages owe me payment for some services I provided and they’re currently refusing to pay. I could take them both but I don’t want to expend the effort if I don’t have to and I need them to actually _tell_ me where my payment is before I’m forced to kill them. I’m hopeful they’ll realize the depths of their stupidity sooner if confronted with both myself and a witcher.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, but he stands to start buckling his swords.

“Wait—” Jaskier says hurriedly standing up with him, “are we really going to—Geralt we don’t even know who these mages are!”

“She helped with your problem before,” is all Geralt says in rebuttal.

“She didn’t do anything but laugh and insult my singing!” Jaskier squawks, feathers in his cap quivering with his exclamation.

“And yet I still came,” Yennefer retorts eyes narrowed at Jaskier. She turns back to Geralt. “That’s practically all I need you to do anyways, just stand there and look intimidating.”

Geralt grunts once more, finishing with his swords.

“Stay here,” he says to Jaskier.

“Oh, no, no, no, _no_ ,” Jaskier replies, standing up and throwing his lute case on over his shoulder. “You are truly daft Geralt, if you think I’m going to let you just walk up to two unknown mages _by yourself._ Can’t be having the griffin all over again can we.”

Yennefer snorts, gaze flicking between them and then settling on Geralt when Geralt offers no counter.

“What happened with the griffin,” she finally asks.

“Oh nothing, I just saved Geralt from certain death is all,” Jaskier says smugly.

“ _You_ ,” Yennefer repeats incredulously, “saved _Geralt_?”

Geralt hums under his breath.

“I could have handled it.”

Besides him Jaskier laughs before turning to Yennefer.

“Lead the way dear witch.”

***

The first mage has barely thrown a firebolt, one which Yennefer counters quickly, when Jaskier’s already singing.

It’s a soft melody this time around, mellifluous and smooth. It sounds almost like a lullaby to Geralt’s ears.

The mages sag immediately, eyes going glazed and unfocused, just as the guards before. Unlike the guards, however, when Jaskier stops singing they don’t collapse.

“Now,” Jaskier says, as he approaches the two swaying mages.

“Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, but Jaskier only waves Geralt’s concern away.

Geralt’s grip tightens around his sword regardless and Yennefer doesn’t let the magic she’s collected at her palms dissipate as she looks at Geralt in confusion.

“Now,” Jaskier repeats, blue eyes bright, “if you’d both be so lovely as to tell us where you’ve hidden our dear Yennefer’s payment.”

“Our keep. In my study,” one of the mages rasps, voice slurred.

“Why thank you,” Jaskier says, petting the mage’s cheek then turning on his heel. “I suggest making our way out of here before these two wake up now.” He says, all bright eyes and a wide smile.

“That was an ancient fae,” Yennefer says slowly, power at her hands finally disappearing as she squints at Jaskier, “unknown to any but the actual fae. How do _you_ know it?”

“I don’t really know,” Jaskier responds sunnily, knocking at his feathered head, “it’s just been kind of swirling around in here since I changed. It’s how I saved Geralt from the griffin.”

Yennefer’s eyes widen at the revelation.

One of the mages moans behind Jaskier, swaying unsteadily.

“Now, I really do suggest we get out of here,” Jaskier says, as he hurriedly scurries back towards them, “I don’t really know how long this will last.

Yennefer opens a portal and they all step through.

***

“Well,” Yennefer says, as she exits the mage’s study with a couple of scrolls in hand and then waves her arm to set the rest of the study on _fire._ “Who knew the bard would end up being more useful than you, Geralt.”

Jaskier gasps at his other side, “Why Yennefer, was that a _compliment?_ ”

Yennefer gives Jaskier a flat smile, “Don’t get used to it _bard_.”

“Oh, my dear Yennefer, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

One of the mages finds them a month later.

He steps through a portal, takes one look at Jaskier sat next to Geralt, piece of jerky halfway to his mouth and his face contorts in rage.

“ _You,_ ” the mage seethes, “you’re the reason Stefan’s _dead._ ”

The mage flicks a hand and Geralt’s sending a wave of _igni_ before he can even think but it’s just that little too late.

Even as an explosion of fire causes the mage to stagger Jaskier goes flying off the log they’d been sat on, crashing into the trees behind them. He slides down the trunk to crumple in loose limbed heap on the dirt floor.

Geralt roars, pulls out his sword as he lets out another wave of _igni_ which the mage barely manages to evade.

“Now to deal with you,” the mage hisses, palms crackling with power.

The mage sends out blast after blast, Geralt evades most, counters with _aard_ and _igni_ when he can, and gets close enough a few times to swing at the mage with his sword. Yet the mage always manages to flit away, putting distance between them once more.

Geralt’s breathing hard, bruised and bleeding from a particularly nasty blast that inflicted a hundred tiny cuts up one side of his body.

Fucking _mages._

Geralt grits his teeth, brings his sword up once more. He needs to hurry, needs to get this over with so he can go check on Jaskier.

He cast _igni_ again, catching the mage by surprise and lunges through the barely dissipating flames.

The sweep of his sword is met with a dagger that the mage secrets out of nowhere, momentarily grounding Geralt long enough that the mage has time to position his hand over Geralt’s stomach.

The mage smiles and Geralt knows this is going to hurt.

The mage lets out a blast that feels like a dozen white hot blades spearing him simultaneously. Geralt lets out a grunt of pain and goes sprawling backwards.

His head knocks back hard against the ground and amid the spinning of his vision Geralt’s only vaguely aware that there’s blood pooling in an alarming amount around him.

He hears the mage step towards him, tries to lift the sword he’s still grabbing onto loosely.

“That _bitch_ of a witch is next,” the mage says as he kicks the sword out of reach and leans down over Geralt with his dagger, “just have to make sure that her two pets are dead first. That bitch will _pay_ for killing Stefan.”

The mage raises his dagger and brings it plunging down at Geralt’s chest.

A scream rends the air.

It’s ear shattering loud and Geralt can feel the medallion at his chest jump out of his shirt with how hard it’s knocking.

The mage drops the dagger and buckles, hands to his ears, mouth open on a soundless scream as blood seeps through his fingers.

The scream cuts off abruptly and the moment of silence it leaves behind is somehow even louder than the scream itself.

Then, another scream.

The mage wails this time writhing on the floor next to Geralt in agony, eyes bleeding and veins bulging purple at his face and neck. The mage gives one last convulsion, nails tearing at his own face and then he goes still. The scream stops.

Geralt hears footsteps, another pair of words are sung, spitting and harsh and the mage’s corpse goes skidding away.

His vision is abruptly filled with Jaskier.

There’s blood dribbling down the bard’s forehead but other than that he looks unharmed and Geralt lets out a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier says, hands coming to hover over what Geralt is starting to realize is a gruesome wound at his stomach. The kind of wound you don’t come back from. “No, no, _Geralt._ ”

Cornflower blue eyes flash as Jaskier sings once more.

It’s a plaintive, soulful wail that has no words but that somehow, Geralt understands anyway.

It’s a love song, a very sad, very heartbroken love song, and somehow Geralt _knows_ , it’s for him.

Jaskier sings and his croons echo around them, Geralt can just about _taste_ the sorrow in the air. It’s an ache that vibrates in his teeth, in his very bones, somehow different that the ache of the gaping hole at his stomach. Somehow worse and better all at once.

Jaskier sings and sings and only stops when a sob finally breaks off his melody. He cradles Geralt’s face gently in his lap and the tears that brim from his blue eyes are warm as they land on Geralt’s face.

Geralt can’t help but smile, it was good to have been able to hear Jaskier sing this one last time.

Jaskier looks down at him, matches his smile even amid his steadily streaming tears.

“Oh, Geralt,” he says, with eyes that glow with a stronger ring of red than they ever have, shining out into the dark even on a moonless night such as this, “we were supposed to have forever now, my stupid, stupid witcher.”

Geralt gives a silent huff, reaches up to wipe at Jaskier’s tears. He only succeeds in bloodying his cheek. Jaskier grabs onto his hand before it can fall, nuzzling into his palm and pressing a kiss to it.

“I would have enjoyed that forever,” Geralt rasps as he feels his eyes start to close.

His vision goes dark and the last thing he hears is Jaskier’s singing.

***

Geralt wakes to a stinging slap at his cheek.

He jerks himself awake, already leaning away from whoever it was that had slapped him.

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier’s voice exclaims loudly and then he has an armful of bard draped over him.

Jaskier presses in close, fingers scrabbling at Geralt’s armor as he rambles.

“ _Gods_ Geralt! I thought you _died_ but then your wound started stitching itself back together and then I started _singing_ and it started healing _faster_ but you wouldn’t fucking _wake up_ —I thought you—I thought you’d actually fucking _died._ ”

And then the bard is wrenching himself from his arms once more, tears still falling as he grins down at Geralt and then surges down to press his lips to Geralt’s own.

Geralt’s eyes widen in surprise and that’s _before_ he feels magic spark and crackles at his lips. But soon enough he’s hauling Jaskier in closer, opening his mouth and letting Jaskier in so that he can _taste_ the wild power of Jaskier’s magic.

It’s sweet and thrilling and Geralt has a feeling the taste will soon become addicting, pairing well with the constant hum of his medallion.

They kiss and when they finally pull apart Jaskier is beaming.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “let’s get started on that forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this didn't quite hit some of the tropes you'd mentioned but I hope I put in enough fluff and geraskier being dumb idiots in love for your liking! 
> 
> Let me know what ya'll think!


End file.
